


see me in hindsight

by ymorton



Category: One Direction (Band), Taylor Swift (Musician)
Genre: Car Sex, Cunnilingus, F/M, Masturbation, Past Relationship(s), Semi-Public Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-25
Updated: 2015-06-25
Packaged: 2018-04-06 03:39:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,567
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4206573
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ymorton/pseuds/ymorton
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>taylor said something about running her new songs by exes and it got a little out of hand</p>
            </blockquote>





	see me in hindsight

**Author's Note:**

> originally posted on tumblr, oct. 2014 
> 
> come say hi [here](http://www.ihavea1dbloghelp.tumblr.com) !

Taylor watches Harry lick pumpkin-white chocolate cookie crumbs off his fingers, slowly, as he studies the sheet music in front of him. It’s 4 AM on a Wednesday morning and there’s a mess of empty mugs, napkins, cookie crumbs, and empty cans of Red Bull on the coffee table between them. Mostly Taylor’s mess, because editing makes her want to die a little bit and she hasn’t slept for more than four hours in a few days, but a few of the mugs are Harry’s. He’s been there for three hours. The boy drinks tea like it’s his job, which is such a fucking cliche, really.

“Does the bridge repeat a third time?" 

"Yeah,” Taylor says. “Turn it over." 

Harry turns the paper over, nods, humming. "Ahh. Yeah." 

"Want to hear the rough version?" 

Harry nods gamely, tucking one bare foot up under him on the sofa and grabbing another cookie. 

"Tell me if it’s, like. If it doesn’t flow, obviously, but also. You know. What you think about… the lyrics." 

Harry nods, mouth full. 

"Not that I’ll change it,” she adds. “But I still want to know what you think." 

"If I’m offended,” Harry says, in his low drawl. 

She huffs a laugh. “Sure." 

He shrugs, nods, tips his head back against the couch, ready to listen. 

"Okay,” Taylor says, leaning forward to hit play on her laptop. “It’s only the first half." 

The song starts playing, and Harry’s foot taps immediately against the carpet. Taylor stands up to refill her water. She’s not embarrassed of the song - of any of her songs - but it’s still weird to watch Harry hear it. She’s only human. It’s still weird to have Harry in her  _house_. 

She comes back in as it’s ending, sits down on the sofa across from Harry, watching his face. His lips are pursed thoughtfully, his hair tucked behind one ear, face carefully neutral. Or maybe just genuinely neutral. Taylor’s not sure. 

She hits pause once it starts to repeat, and looks at him. 

"I like it,” Harry says. “I think it’s, like. It flows really well." 

"Okaaaay,” she says, drawing it out. “And?" 

"And- I dunno, I just like it,” Harry says, sheepishly. He laughs. “It’s really catchy." 

"And you’re not offended. Again, not that I would necessarily care." 

"No, I’m not offended.” Harry’s mouth works around like he’s trying not to smile. “The lyrics are sick. I like them. Got a bit of a shiver right at that part before the chorus." 

Taylor nods, slowly, reaching absently for another cookie and taking a bite. 

"Is this weird?” she says. “Asking you? I’ve never done this before." 

"S'not weird. I think it’s good. Like. I mean, it’s good, isn’t it?" 

"No idea." 

"Yeah, me neither.” He huffs out a laugh. “It feels alright, though." 

"Yeah.” She sits back in the chair, reaches out to hit play on the laptop with her big toe, nearly knocking over a towering stack of pastel Post-its she’s been using to mark up sheet music. “One more time?" 

"Yeah, please." 

They listen to it again, together this time, and when Harry starts looking at her during, Taylor tries her hardest not to go red. 

"I like it,” he says again, once she’s stopped it. “I really do." 

"Thanks, Styles.” She smiles at him, and he pulls a face, suddenly, sticking his tongue out at her. 

She snorts, pulls one right back, until they’re both laughing, punch-drunk and exhausted. Harry’s insanely jetlagged, which is probably why he’s even here right now, and Taylor doesn’t know the meaning of sleep anymore. 

“Hey,” Harry says, when he’s stopped chuckling to himself. “Do you want to hear a cliche?" 

"That’s not a thing people ask, Harry. They’re called jokes here in the U.S." 

He pouts. 

"Sure, please, tell me a cliche." 

"Alright.” He toys with the hem of his gray t-shirt. It’s so worn down it’s practically see-through, and he’s wearing black skinny jeans. His hair is getting long and he has sunglasses tucked up on his head even though it’s the middle of the night and Taylor is trying really hard not to write lyrics in her head about him.

“Do you want to go for a drive with me?" 

He looks up at her while he asks, and she laughs, thinking he’s joking.

"That’s cute, Styles.”

“Actually.” He peers at her. It’s always nice, when he looks at her like that, like he has no clue what’s going on in her head. That look always used to scare her. Now it makes her feel like laughing. 

“A drive,” Taylor says, leaning forward in her chair. 

“Told you it was cliche." 

Taylor watches him for a second, and he watches her back. Raises his eyebrows, like a challenge. 

"Okay,” she says, and maybe six months ago she would’ve said  _just a drive_. 

She doesn’t this time, doesn’t feel the need to draw boundaries, and it feels like a defeat and a victory at the same time. 

—

Harry drives, in a car that Taylor’s never seen before, a black Audi that’s all clean lines on the inside, metal-gray. 

“This is nice,” she says, even though it’s cold and too-clean and it doesn’t feel like him. 

“It’s Jeff’s,” he says, one hand on the wheel, the other in his lap. 

“Oh.” She nods, brushing a piece of fluff off her knee. She’s wearing a big sweater and a tiny skirt and Harry’s already looked at her legs more than once. “Cool." 

"You don’t like it, do you." 

When she looks at him his mouth is tugged up at the corner, amusedly. 

"Not really,” she says, laughing. 

“Mine’s in the shop,” he says. “And I didn’t think you’d fancy the bike." 

"I might,” she says. “You don’t know me." 

"Don’t I?" 

She ignores that. "Maybe I’m a biker at heart. Maybe I have like a thousand secret tattoos you don’t know about." 

He laughs. "Wouldn’t be surprised.”

She sits up, crosses her legs, and he looks at them again. 

“Where are we going, Mr. Styles?" 

Shit. She should really be too tired to flirt, especially with  _Harry._

Harry coughs, curls his hand around the wheel to curve around a bend in the highway. "Where do you reckon we’re going?" 

"Mm,” she says. “To my publicist’s, so she can talk me out of this?" 

His mouth twists up again. 

"Drive you there if you like,” he says. 

“I’ll pass. She doesn’t need the heart attack." 

"Good, coz we’re almost there,” he says, and hooks a sharp right turn that pushes her flat against the seat, makes her breathless. 

“There” is an empty parking lot at a view point overlooking the ocean, quiet, flat. Harry pulls into park at the edge of the lot. It’s gray and misty out, everything suffused in an eerie pre-dawn light, the stars starting to fade away. Harry turns off his car with a flick of his hand, looks out at the water. 

“This is amazing,” she says, rubbing her hands on her thighs, sitting up to look at the view. 

Harry hums in agreement, running a hand through his hair. 

It’s just them. No security, no paps, no people. It’s kind of terrifying, actually. Taylor shivers at the salty breeze - the windows are still down - and Harry looks over at her. 

“Cold?" 

"I’m fine.” She crosses her arm over her chest. “Feels good." 

He nods, turning back to the ocean. 

"Honestly gonna leave this place for New York?” he asks, nodding at the view, stretching his legs out. “No more, like, space. Open water. Sunlight." 

"It’s New York, not a dungeon,” she says. “Kind of over LA, anyway. Feels old." 

He’s quiet for a second.

"You think it’ll be better in New York?” he asks, quietly. “Like, the paps and everything." 

It comes out as  _everyfing_  in his sleepy accent. 

"That’s what I’ve heard. Not, like, amazing, but. Not as aggressive." 

Harry nods. 

"Do you ever think,” he says, slowly, and her pulse picks up. She stares determinedly out the window. “Like. At some point people will stop caring?”

It’s a weird question. Taylor looks at him. Harry’s squinting against the breeze and his brows are furrowed. 

“Probably,” she says. “Eventually. Do you want them to?" 

Harry’s throat works in a swallow.

"I dunno,” he says, softly.

She gets a clench in her stomach, hot, because she knows just what he means. 

He loves this as much as she does. It sucks, and it messes up her relationships, and it makes her paranoid, and yet she loves it so much. Wants it so much it hurts, sometimes. 

To the papers she can pretend that she’d be fine with it, if it all ended tomorrow. That as long as she had her family and her friends, it’d all be great. That she’d be satisfied with just that. 

It’s not true, though. It’s not true for Harry either. They’re just those kinds of people. It’s not something they’ll say out loud because it sounds greedy and awful, to need to be watched, to be loved, but they both know it’s just -

She startles, because Harry’s putting a hand on her bare leg. It’s cold. 

“What are you doing,” she says, voice harsh. “Honestly, Harry? Really?" 

"I dunno,” Harry says again, looking at her. His eyes are wide, guileless, reflecting that same kind of exhausted recklessness she’s feeling right about now. 

She puts her hand on his, presses it down for a second, not letting him move. He’s quivering, and his big hand looks obscene against the paleness of her thigh, and her head feels fuzzy. How long’s it been since she slept? 

“Taylor-" 

"I don’t want to kiss you,” she says. “I really don’t want to kiss you. I think that’d be really stupid." 

Harry licks his mouth at the word  _kiss_ , like a reflex. His eyelid flickers. He’s nervous, which is strange, but it makes her feel better, less unsteady. 

"You’re such a cliche,” she whispers. “Like, you get that, right?" 

Harry swallows, and his fingers creep up her thigh, sliding out from under her hand.

"This isn’t going to be a thing,” she says, keeping her voice hard, even as something drops in the pit of her belly, spreads out like ripples on a pond, hot and making her thighs tense. 

“Yeah,” Harry says, roughly. “But like, you don’t hate me, right?" 

His head is ducked, fingers still crawling their way up, up, til one brushes against the hem of her underwear and she has to force herself to breathe evenly. Her hand’s clamped down on her own thigh, now, his fingers long gone past it. 

"That’s why you’re doing this, cuz I don’t hate you?" 

Harry doesn’t answer. His hair’s falling over his face, and then two of his fingers are wriggling underneath the cotton of her underwear. 

"Doesn’t need to be a thing,” he mumbles, as she tries to sit still, tries not slide forward in the seat, get his hands closer. Her neck throbs from keeping it locked tight, and when his thumb rubs against the juncture of her thigh and cunt she lets out a harsh breath. 

“Harry,” she says, watching him, watching his wicked hand and the way his face is narrow and focused. “This is - stupid." 

He nods, not looking at her, and then says, "Push your seat back." 

His fingers press against her hard for a minute, then pull away, and she’s breathless. She watches while he licks them, pink tongue sliding over the whorls of his fingertips, and there’s something so maddening about him knowing she’s wet. It feels like giving something away, and yet part of her just wants to be touched, to come. Part of her is hungry and bored with all the reasons why-not, so she pushes her chair back, reclines and moves forward, just enough so she can see him as he crawls onto the floor, hunches there, hands warm and broad on her thighs. They both have long legs, and it’s hard to fit, but Harry doesn’t look unhappy down there at her feet. His face is already slack like he’s just gotten off, and he keeps licking his lips like he wants more than a taste.

"What if someone comes,” she whispers, feeling dizzy, and then she chokes out a laugh, because _someone_ ’s definitely going to come. 

“Then we’re fucked, I guess,” Harry says slowly, before he spreads her legs wide open with his elbows and leans forward to lick a slow stripe up the very center of her. It’s too much at once, his hot tongue and the chill breeze from outside still making her shiver, and she whimpers loud. 

He lifts his head, blinking heavily. God, she forgot about that, the way his body changes when he’s on his knees. He goes all loose and dazed, and he looks sleepy, and she always has the urge to take his hair in her hands, pet it, pull it. 

“Go on,” she says, when he doesn’t move, licking his mouth, eyelids fluttering. “Do it." 

Harry nods, ducks down again, and she leans back, puts a hand on her stomach, tries to breathe. He’s so  _good_  at it, is the thing. She forgot that too, how messy he is, how eager, willing to get his face wet. Conor was prudish about it - about a lot of things - but Harry’s just. God. He’s just- 

"Sh-it, Harry,” she gasps. “Oh, my. God." 

Harry doesn’t look up. His mouth is on her clit, sucking, tonguing, and she’s breathless, shuddering down against his face. His fingers run down the inside of her thigh and then- god, and then further, two of them hooking just inside her, playing, rubbing.

Her hand flails at the touch, lands in his hair, and when she fists a handful of it he groans, wriggles closer, pushes one of her bare legs over his shoulder. It lets him get deep, with three of his long fingers and his broad tongue, and it’s barely another minute before she’s clenching, coming, letting out a high shaky sound.

"God,” she says, breathlessly, staring up at the ceiling of the car. Her cunt’s still quivering, and she can feel him breathing against her. “God." 

Harry kisses the inside of her thigh softly, and then rests his head there, against her leg. 

She strokes his head, feeling the way he relaxes under her touch. 

"This was still stupid,” she says, weakly. 

Harry huffs a laugh. His eyes are closed. 

When she takes her hand out of his hair, he looks up, drowsily, his lips swollen red. 

“It’s almost sunrise,” she says. “Ha, I think someone’s surfing." 

"Hopefully not with a camera,” Harry says, and laughs tiredly, and she laughs back, runs her hand through her hair. 

He sits up, clambers clumsily back over the middle console into his seat, wincing, and she watches as he presses his hand down over his crotch, bites his lip. 

“You can,” she says, hushed, giving a quick check in the mirror to make sure no one’s behind them, or pulling into the lot. “Like, touch yourself." 

Harry rolls his head on the seat to look at her. 

"I mean, if you want,” she adds. 

Harry won’t stop looking at her. Her mouth.

“We’re still not gonna kiss,” she says, and he nods, slowly, unzipping his jeans with one hand, and- oh, god. He’s hard, a patch of slick wet glistening through his briefs like he’s been leaking steadily while he ate her out. She stares shamelessly for a second, and then exhales hard when he pushes his briefs down, his cock slapping up hard against his belly, waiting. She squirms, a little, still sensitive. Remembering. 

He keeps watching her when he wraps a hand around himself, and his mouth falls open, wet and pink and soft. He sighs.

Taylor really does want to kiss him. 

She doesn’t, though, because she’s smarter than she was once. She doesn’t even touch him. She watches, and he gets himself off, he does it just the way he likes, twisting hard on the upstroke, thumbing over the wet tip, his breath yoga-slow and deep and his other hand fisted on his thigh. 

They’ve had sex in about every position they could come up with, and for some reason Taylor’s never felt more - exposed. Harry’s eyes flutter shut when he gets close, and his breath speeds up, shudders, and she runs her eyes down his torso, his new tattoos, his hand wrapped around himself, his rings glinting in the early morning light. 

He’s quiet when he comes, biting out a little groan, spilling into his palm and tugging himself through it. He’s rough with himself, in the way he almost pinches the head of his cock, and watching him makes Taylor’s belly shiver. 

When he opens his eyes they’re dark, heavy-lidded, and he says slowly, “Do you, um, mind, like. There are tissues in the glove compartment." 

She tears her eyes away from him and fumbles the door open, hands him a Kleenex. For some reason, it nearly makes her laugh hysterically, watching him dab come off his stomach. It’s like five in the morning, and they’re in a  _car_ , and Harry’s wiping jizz off his hand with a tissue. Life is weird. 

She looks out at the ocean, at the gray light starting to soften into pink. She  _will_  miss this part. Sometimes the coast feels so big, the sky is so - huge, humbling. She’s never lived somewhere where she can’t see the whole sky. 

Harry tucks the tissue into his pocket. 

"Do you want to go down?” he says, and she snorts. He huffs a laugh. “To the beach, I mean." 

"Probably shouldn’t risk it,” she murmurs, sitting up to look out at the water. There are two surfers now, in neon wetsuits, and another on the beach. 

Harry nods, and sticks the key in the ignition, reverses out of there quickly. 

They’re back on the highway before either of them speak again. 

“You’ll come back sometimes,” Harry says, into the soft silence. Taylor’s staring out the window, thinking, her mind flitting idly over the night. She’s completely exhausted, all of a sudden, all the adrenaline drained out of her. “To LA. Like, you’re keeping your house." 

"Yeah,” she says, glancing over at him. Harry’s face is unreadable from the side. “I mean, for now." 

He nods. 

"Come back,” he says, abruptly. “Sometimes, I mean." 

Taylor bites back a mean sort of laugh. Harry’s really not used to being left, is he? 

"Okay,” she says. "Does that mean you’re going to miss me, Styles?“ 

Harry goes quiet, that kind of silence that used to make Taylor uncomfortable. She talked so much with him sometimes, and he just clammed up, and it just made her talk more. 

This time she stays just as quiet, turns her head and watches him drive. It’s very early and she’s very tired and something about it is homey, curled up in the front seat watching someone drive, watching the way his brow furrows and how he uses two hands for a sharp turn.

She will come back, she knows, suddenly. Whether it’s in a month or a decade, whether it’s for a weekend or forever. She doesn’t leave that easy, she doesn’t let stuff go that easy. 

She and Harry are different that way. It feels good to be the one leaving for once. 

"We’re okay,” she says, when he turns onto her street, cruising slowly past the gates, the hushed huge houses, set far back from the street, imposing and guarded. “I’m glad we’re okay." 

"Me too.” He slows down at the curb, pulls to a stop. “Should I go in?" 

"No, it’s fine,” she says, and despite herself, she reaches over and carefully kisses his cheek. He turns his face so she catches the side of his mouth, and just that one touch, the brush of his soft full lips, makes her get goosebumps. 

“Okay,” she says, pulling away, wiping her mouth. “Don’t." 

"Sorry,” Harry mumbles. 

“It’s fine.” She shoots a smile at him, tight. God. His mouth. What if she just - leaned over again, let him - 

She opens the door, and slides out, tugging down her skirt. 

“Thanks,” she says reflexively, leaning down, and he looks at her searchingly, like he’s trying to memorize her face. She knows that’s what he’s doing, because she’s doing it too. They’re both too fucking dramatic. 

“Take care,” he says, softly, and she nods. 

“You too." 

"The album’s sick.” He bites his bottom lip. “Thanks for the preview." 

"My biggest fan,” Taylor says, lightly. “Night, Styles." 

She straightens up, adjusting her skirt again, and he waits until she’s keyed in the code for the front gate and yanked it open before he takes off, engine growling loudly in the early-morning still. She shuts the gate behind her and pads up the stone steps towards her house, breathing deep. There’s dew on the grass and a breeze is blowing and everything smells of gardenias, and the roses that are starting to bloom. It smells romantic, it makes her quiver, gulp for air, walk on her toes. 

There’s something burrowing, spreading, in her chest, some warm seed of hope, and maybe once she would’ve let it bloom. 

She’s not that person anymore, though, and she’s worked hard not to be. It’s alright. They’ll be alright.


End file.
